


fake you out

by canonjohnlock



Series: vessel [2]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Drabble, Fake You Out, Songfic, twenty one pilots - Freeform, undertones of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonjohnlock/pseuds/canonjohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our brains are sick but that's okay</p>
            </blockquote>





	fake you out

They’re not true. Well, they are. The stories are real. They happened. But the way he acts, that’s not him. He leans back in his chair and takes a long sip of coffee. It’s early in the morning and his flatmate is still asleep. While his best friend is a night owl, Phil prefers the soft colors of sunrise and the fluffy clouds that dance around the horizon. He stands up, cradling his mug between his hands, and walks out of his room. Dan’s door is slightly ajar. He nudges it open and leans against the door frame.

Dan is curled on his side, back towards Phil. Phil can see the covers rise and fall with his even breaths. Phil closes the door softly and pads out to the lounge. It’s a bit of a mess still from the small gathering they had last night. There are cups scattered across the table and Phil can see the stickiness of spilled soda on the dark wood table. There’s popcorn shoved in the cushions and melted Maltesers crusting over. It’s a mess for later. 

Phil sits at the table and nurses his coffee. The sky has brightened and the streets of London are already awake. A siren blares, getting louder as it passes their flat and fades as it speeds away. Phil closes his eyes. One day, he knows those sirens will stop at their building and feet will pound up to their floor and the door will open and Phil will be curled in the bathroom, crying and sobbing.

His videos are lies. He puts out this happy exterior. It’s not that he’s trying to redefine himself. He’s not any different off camera than he is on camera. He just hides. He hides behind accidental innuendos and silly stories. He hides behind wide smiles and bright colors and happy music.

Most days, Phil is okay. He can smile without forcing it, he can laugh at bad jokes, and he can cheer people up. Other days, he feels gray.

Depression affects many people around the world and the experience is different for everyone. Phil wouldn’t say he’s chronically depressed. No, he’s not. Sometimes, it’s like his brain is sick. Like it contracts some cold. It feels stuffy and heavy. It feels like his brain is pushing against his skull but not in the headache way, in the ‘I’m so sad right now that I feel like this sadness is spilling over and filling my skull and my brain has nowhere to go but out’ kind of pain.

Phil really can’t describe it. All he can say is that sometimes his brain gets sick.

The soft colors of sunrise have dissipated. Phil looks down at his mug. His coffee is long gone. He sits at the table until the sun is fully risen and is shining harshly in his eyes. Light slants through the windows and illuminates the dust motes in the air.

Phil wishes he was a dust mote. They float freely. They do whatever they please. They have no responsibilities, no feelings. Phil can picture it: AmazingDustMote. He chuckles despite himself.

He places his coffee mug in the kitchen sink and goes back to the lounge to begin cleaning up. He feels better, the sadness isn’t constricting his skull any more. As Phil cleans up, Dan wakes and shuffles into the lounge. His hair is sticking up wildly and his eyes are still clouded over with sleep.

“What are you doing awake?” Phil asks, tucking a cup under his arm.

“Heard someone movin’ around,” Dan answers groggily. “Need any help?”

Phil shakes his head. “No. You can go back to sleep.”

“Can’t now. I’m already waking up.” He sits down at the table and yawns. “Why were you up?”

“I woke up.” Phil pulls a few popcorn kernels out from the creases in the sofa.

“Didja make coffee?”

“Yeah.”

Dan stands up and trudges to the kitchen, disturbing the dust motes in the air. Phil watches them dance until they settle again. They’re almost like his brain: disturbed for brief moments before settling again.

Phil tries not to think about the possibility of a hurricane destroying his little dust mote mind. Another siren passes by their building. The dust motes float and Phil scrapes chocolate off his sofa.


End file.
